An old man wanders through ruin and foam,
His heart a hollow bell — he seeks his home.
From the torn robe of his soul ascends a cry,
Like a bird that has forgotten how to fly.
He totters on feet in the weary clay,
His boots are heavy, his hair is gray.
“Once stood my house upon this shore,
But now the sea has claimed its floor.
It shattered, it scattered, to splinters and sand,
Though once it was firm, by a craftsman’s hand.”
He lifts his eyes — but light has fled;
The sun lies buried among the dead.
Around him — mire, the death of form,
The sea’s black breath, the ruin’s storm.
No eye, nor lens, nor mortal art,
Could frame the grief that breaks the heart —
Those hollow craters, still with pain,
Like sockets where stars once shone in vain.
Rikuzentakata — city of woe!
She kissed her children and bade them go,
Back to the sea from which they came,
While Heaven watched, too numb for shame.
Bamboo poles pierce the sodden ground,
Rescuers search, though none are found.
Hope trembles in their shaking hands,
But only corpses meet their plans.
Some hang in trees, in silent bands,
Some rest in clay, some grasp the sands.
And little ones call through the darkened air,
Clutching their toys, still calling, “Where?”
O Heaven! Grant this weary sight —
Let mercy find them in the night.
The North lies white beneath the gale,
Snow falls with an iron veil.
Ashen flakes with a nuclear skin
Descend on the masked, the frail within.
Engineers in orange pray and toil,
Among the ruins of food and soil;
The world is broken, the stores are bare,
And none can promise comfort there.
“Hiroshi Fujima,” the silence moans,
“Our names are lost, our hearts are stones!
The world forgot us, in its grief,
And left us trembling, past belief.”
He stands, frost-haired, beneath the sky,
His voice a ghostly lullaby:
“Shall we explode? Shall the atom wake?
How much can the spirit of man forsake?”
Fifteen tremors the earth has given,
Each one a breath between hell and heaven.
3.10.2025